That fountain of goodwill,
The Lan's last hooray,
Its whisper from its lips,
Where a steely bench sits.
A square of space to its centre,
Stone faced well of good fortune and remember Of heritage, hope of crowds to be as people walk by,
You watch and smile,
some notable but more of who them, than am I?
The bell of the clock from its steeple tower of grace and almighty plays us out churches,
One hour daily ding **** to what has been till now somewhat silently gone as quick,
you have to catch it or its to quit.
A job it was once here,
A job of selling television, radio, stereo and a couple of light blue sensors!
A shop of not for me than to act out a part brain dead with a badge upon your shirt neck gone to your head!
The importance of customer service but sacked for no badge of a degree in wearing a staff beret!
Where buckle pickle proprietor with no discrepancy,
When that penny must be aired and wherever found.
It was handy knowing that especially on the brink of collapse as now it professes to be a shop of footwear convenience.
To remember back the old man carrying his wooden baton banner high reading the end of the world is nigh!
Years have blossomed upon this earth that be your witness the laugh of seeing something so strange from a boy to a man but in thinking that again.
This entrance sit to the vibrant noise of the market indoor just behind thee,
warm cosy and very principle.
Fruit and veg first on the shelf,
To a double glazier seller handed out his job leaf selling gilt,
Left or right a wall splits apart to mark a labyrinth of stalls and what's next in store.
Walk on by on that day,
Coffee on the terraces and all that hear say,
Mushy peas and ******* was the order of the day then we meet up on a middle square with a fountain of people jolly resting or been vaguely aware,
Outside it feels so cold wind sheets flapping the wind of noise of the sacred sight of the outdoor market,
Paintings of art or prints and figurines on table boards all going for a song or a shaky tambourine,
The selling shouts of two for a pound,
The second shout louder than the first
all in one big bustle of a flooded feature shopping dynamite experience.
Clothes to clone socks, bags and jewellery in front of all mason shops!
It rolls out the rugs and the magic carpets at the end on a bend of I must have that as you get what you pay for at the final gate spend.
All towel dried some pick 'n' mix,
Aisles too many and very wide,
Large Poster girl and Poster boy,
Especially for you then Troy,
That pop song ringing up the tills of records you can pick, sleeve and buy,
Those were the good old days running through the park to watch cricket and play pitch right up until dark!
Where statue of legends who once lived here
In Grace of its land and song for its country to which I pay homage and home.
Ghost Town shops boarded up and disarray,
Its wonky streets chimes of life abandoned on a precinct flattened now and gone away,
No calm of seagulls screech speech lifts its sodden place sky,
Is there no welcome here?
Kind of arms mystifying its chair,
For no more market shouts as the bubble has burst its very domain,
Its gone only with a silent pointy prayer.